Sary's Gold

by Sharon Shipley

  As the hag fingered the last dove, Handi clapped hands. “Time, my soiled little doves! Time to wash your funsies and your fancies.” She hummed. It was her favorite time. All her girls together, having fun in a sisterhood and being the age they were—mostly, she amended, eyeing Sobriety Sally’s gray strands. Have to darken them up some, with strong black tea…but she’s a heller in bed.

  Girls goosed about, squealing, stepping in tubs as Handi wandered to a drying line, smile still fixed in a withered line of carmine. She spied the monogrammed hanky, admiring it in the rosy light.

  The smile turned to a crimson downward slash. Handi, as white-faced as the fine linen hanky on the line, yanked it off, mouthing the initials.

  “J-A-D,” she breathed. “Jules Alexander.” Crushing the hanky to her breast, she whirled, stabbing them with her voice. “Who. Stole. This? Where did this come from?”

  Girls halted in soaping each other, wide-eyed and sulky. Little May glowered, ducking. Handi slapped her, dragged her from the tub, and yanked the wet naked fat girl, soap in her eyes, kicking and yowling down the middle of Big Bear, through the saloon and hence to Julian’s office. Slamming the door on a curious crowd, Handi forced Little May to her knees, thrusting the handkerchief at Julian.

  “Little May didn’t have this before!”

  The fat girl covered herself. “Didn’t snitch it! Found it! I didn’t! That daft bitch!” And broke into coarse bawling.

  Julian buckled on a gun, knocking Little May over as he rushed out. “Put something on!” he yelled back.

  ****

  Sary patted Seb’s grave, took a nip from the jug and waved it, drunkenly singing. “This is it, Seb!” she bawled. “Las’ a your gold! Ever little scrap.” And she spun a clumsy dance step, nearly falling. “Gonna be rich as tha’ king, Sebastian! Everythin’ gold an’ velvet, silk an’ lace an’…an’…an’…”

  She caught sight of her own ragged skirt, fringed in dried mud, averted her eyes, and continued bellowing to the moon.

  “Gonna smell like jasmine! Ya hear? Roses! And lily of the valley! Hear that, Seb? And all you women, and the whole damned town—Gonna eat till I’m sick of liftin’ a spoon! I’LL SMELL LIKE A HARLOT!”

  Sary collapsed, giggling.

  Dropping the shawl, she lurched into a dance led by her belly, warbling off-key, “I’m only a bird in a gilded cage. Oh, what a…sight to seeeeeee…” And so she didn’t hear Julian falling off his saddle, watching her stumble through another chorus…

  “Oh, what a life I’ve led…” Sary sang.

  Julian could hardly believe what he saw. In his befuddlement, Julian might have said Sary was a vision of all that was holy—if he were a religious man—an icon, her full figure backlit by fire. He clutched Jules’s handkerchief and called down shakily, “Truly? Seb was your brother?”

  Sary slurred, “My brother?” She looked into the dark, suddenly sober. “Delacorte?”

  Julian stumbled to the ground, half hands-up, half rushing to his reward. “Said you didn’t know him, by God!”

  Julian swept her bursting figure as Sary stood rooted. “And you’ve got—”

  His eyes were all the stars in heaven.

  “Jules’s—my boy’s brat’s in there!” He dropped to his knees like a supplicant seeing the Virgin Mary. “I knew my boy was foolin’ around with you. I knew it in my bones!”

  Sary had a splinter-flash vision of Ev’ret on top of her and Jules sitting atop his horse, before flinching as Delacorte jumped up and wildly eyed the camp. He strode about, yelling, “Jules!”

  Sary’s eyes darted to the graves and back, reliving that day. Seb. The shot fired. The blood. Her weariness to the bone.

  “He’ll be back.” Julian paced, circling the trees. “Jules left that with you!” He stabbed at Sary’s belly. “You come with me now.” He called feverishly into the night, “He’ll be back, foolish boy!” Julian snatched at her. “Come on! You can’t stay here.”

  “If I could ease your torment, I would. Don’t mean I’m going anywhere with you!”

  He grabbed at her. She snatched Seb’s shotgun. “I’ll blow this baby to Kingdom Come and myself with it. I will!” she warned.

  Julian backed, palms up, crooning. “Overwrought. Delicate. Like a woman should be. You’re in the family way. You—”

  He moved to her.

  Sary jerked the shotgun.

  Julian retreated, infuriated. “Agreed. Agreed!” Julian snarled. “Never notioned violets wilting on a fainting couch, all corseted, were worth warm spit anyways!”

  He struggled to mount. “See, I’m going.” He stared hungrily. “Be well!” Julian croaked back from the dark. “He’ll want for nothing! You’ll see. Jules’s brat will be healthy—strong!”

  Sary didn’t wait until more hoof beats thudded into the night. Hobbling to the graves, she dug out the saddlebags and dragged them to the horse. On the second trip, Sary doubled, moaning, to the ground and, in time, reburied her gold.

  ****

  She awoke, shotgun by her side, curiously rested, her burden at ease. She rubbed her belly—the child she still couldn’t quite believe in was still stirring. There was an icy blue sky and sun with the kiss of spring on her thin cheek. Little did she guess the drama soon to descend from the knoll ridge was not Delacorte, or townspeople, but in the shape of kids—Ellie, little Cora…

  Sary roused, gathering brush, building a fire, mind racing like a squirrel up and down a tall tree, leaping branch to branch for a way to escape Delacorte and his suspicions. On the knoll, the fourteen-year-old boy avidly observed every motion, hissing to the others. “Let’s go get her. A har-lot, Pa said. Almost made a sieve outta him the other day!”

  Little Cora ran ahead, windmilling down on scrawny little legs. “Let’s go get her!”

  “Cora! Stay here. Cora-Anne!” Ellie’s commands were lost among the town kids’ screaming, lobbing stones, pinecones, clods of dirt. Below, a sudden whinny as a rock struck Sary’s horse.

  It bucked and fought its rope.

  To Sary, everything erupted about her.

  Boiling water fell into the fire like an explosion.

  Steam hissed like a snake, billowed, and formed thick, moist, shifting curtains.

  Tinder-dry pinecones exploded all around Sary like sharp bits of shrapnel. The barrage of explosive pops continued, detonating like gunfire, spitting hot cinders, striking her hard as bullets.

  Squinting through smoke and steam, Sary dimly viewed darting images. Her horse screamed as burning missiles pocked its flanks. Then, breaking loose, hooves slashing, it pranced through the coals.

  Sary whirled in confusion and fright, firing at the air, ducking from the hooves, backing, flinching as pine barbs sizzled on her hair and skittered down her face.

  Explosions burst all around her. Bullets that stung but didn’t draw blood.

  “Stop! Stop shooting at me! Why are you—?”

  Sary hobbled, one arm over her head, the other on her belly, twisting, turning, and still the cones came, bursting, flinging their hot sharp barbs. She spun clumsily and reloaded blind, firing into the air as emerging figures became more distinct. Flashes of color now, with misty howling faces. She laid down the gun.

  Cora came running, hysterical, legs pinwheeling out of control, down the hill and tripped, striking her head on a boulder, and lay there—inert.

  “Cory! Get on up!” Ellie urged. “Mommy’s gonna be mad on you!”

  At the sound of scared young voices, Sary dropped her gun like it burned and waddled clumsily, holding her tummy, up the rise.

  “Ya kilt Cora!” Ellie cried. The fourteen-year-old scooped little Cora up, shrieking, “Our Pas’ll come after you, and fix you good, now!”

  “Wait!” Sary sprawled in the dirt. “Let me see her!”

  When she tried to rise, she doubled over, gasping in pain and shock. “Oh, God!” She looked fearfully back to camp. “They’ll come descending like the seven plagues of Egypt.” Hitching up
as fast as she was able, Sary lurched after her skittish horse as the children wailed into the distance.

  ****

  Behind Handi’s outhouse, Julian gripped the Indian hag’s withered arms and looked up in irritation at the disturbance, even more irritated as a dove trotted out of Handi’s kitchen, glanced sourly at the two of them, and slammed the outhouse door.

  “Piss and get out!” Julian bawled.

  The dove exited, dragging down her skirts. “Hmmmmph!”

  The hag jerked Julian back, watching his mouth as he spoke. Half listening to the ruckus out front, Julian absently handed her whiskey and a rifle, refocusing on her creased face. “Do for Sarabande Swinford like you do for Handi,” he hissed. “Only it lives. You hear? It lives!”

  The wailing of the children became louder, closer. Both glanced to the street, but the hag tugged him back, eyeing his pinkie ring. Julian wrested it off and threw it at her.

  Out on the main street, Grace took dead Cora into her arms, crying, “Mister Doheny!”

  ****

  That night, Cora was laid out on Doheny’s dry goods counter. Grace wiped her limbs and face, combed Cora’s lank blond hair, kissed the gash on her forehead, and drew a quilt to Cora’s hands, tucking a few dusty mountain weeds betwixt the small fingers.

  Ratchet hovered, greedy for Aaron and Grace’s pain. “Ain’t fambly rakehell for nothin’, Aary. Use me.”

  Aaron looked up, pink-eyed and weeping, as Ratchet drew out the pain. “Little Cory’s too yo-ung.” Ratchet threw the quilt back. “Poor little mite. Just look at her.” Grace flinched as Ratchet stroked Cora’s waxen cheek.

  “Julian. Julian takes care of us,” Aaron sobbed.

  “Little Cory’s yours, Aary.” Ratchet leered.

  Aaron looked off from Ratchet’s rapacious face. He stiffened.

  “I’ll do it. Me. I’m Cory’s pa. Someday.” He lifted a pale curl, looking up at Ratchet with wet eyes. “Help me.”

  ****

  Julian, lavishing more gingerbread to a small side porch of the ever-expanding drawing of a Victorian house, frowned at riders thundering past, tossing his pencil as he rose. “Fuckin’ tent show out there!”

  From the saloon porch, Julian watched the last rider gallop out. At a flashing glimpse of Ratchet’s face, sudden alarm gripped him.

  Ratchet was chafing his hands with grim glee as riders passed the saloon, ropes looped about pommels and a jug of kerosene in one’s hand as they galloped away from Grace and Aaron’s store.

  ****

  Sary waited, crouched behind one of the huge boulders with Seb’s shotgun cocked. The ground quaked beneath her feet before the lynch mob thundered in, sighting on the first, then the others as most dismounted and spread warily about camp.

  She tracked a man with a slouch hat stepping past her boulder. “Over that copse last time,” he said. “Step lively!” He twirled as Sary showed herself, her belly thrust to counterbalance the gun, shouting over his head to tell all of them, “Wasn’t my intention that sweet child got hurt. No intention you saying it was!”

  Sary hadn’t noticed Grace, but now the woman raged forward, hands curled into claws and screeching, “Hurt! Ya killed her! Kilt my baby!” as Ginger-Beard circled behind.

  “No!” Sary cried. “Job would’ve been sore tormented and found wanting!”

  Behind her, Ginger-Beard’s boots scraped rock. “Job, is it!” Ginger-Beard hissed, his face mottled and red as his beard. “We’ll torment you to fuckin’ perdition!” Sary backed against the boulder, bumping the stock. Her gun exploded. Ginger-Beard fell ugly and died ugly.

  Aaron peered around, saw him, and threw up. “Oh Lordy,” he gasped, before calling out, “Gracie!”

  Sary eyed the stunned, infuriated mob robbed of their easy prey, scanned the rope and kerosene. She reloaded, but there were just too many of them. One dragged her out. One splashed Sary with kerosene. The harsh oily stench clogged her nose. Fortunately, it only landed on her arm, but her skirts sparked and caught as the mob yanked her through the fire pit to a cedar with one branch hanging low like a twisted beckoning arm.

  Grace pushed through, still screeching. “Knot the rope! Aary! Knot it! Knot the damn rope!”

  “Already done.” A short man with glasses shoved Aaron aside. “Already done, Gracie.”

  But she yanked it away and threw the rope at Aaron. Aaron gently tossed it at a branch, taking several tries. Grace snatched the noose from her husband and threw it vehemently over in one go, then grabbed Sary and looped it around her neck while the mob held her thrashing legs.

  “Like your new necklace, dearie? You and your unnatural whore’s son can wear it proud in Hades,” she gloated, backing as Sary’s skirts began to smolder. She cackled. “Maybe Hades can’t wait!”

  “Stand back!” A rancher shoved Grace off-balance, hitching Sary, kicking and clawing at her neck, onto his shoulder. He too jumped aside from her charring skirt while she desperately toed a tree bole, striving to boost herself and give her neck ease.

  A woman moaned in the crowd, turning from the inevitable thunk of rope and crack of Sary’s neck, the expected odor of fire, bracing for Sary’s terrible screams—but the thunk didn’t come, and the woman peered out, slightly disappointed, to see Grace dash Sary’s foot from the toehold, snarling, “No, you don’t!”

  Sary slipped. If she weren’t strangling, she’d choke from smoke. Stretching for a branch overhead, just in fingertip reach, she gripped it and kicked Grace square in the chin before the limb snapped and her toe found the tree bole again. Her smoldering damp petticoat steamed as Grace yanked Sary’s ankles, avoiding most of the next blows Sary aimed. However, the mob seemed to have a mixed reaction, undecided between Sary’s efforts and Grace’s terrifying force.

  Suddenly Julian exploded into their midst. Reined short, his mount reared and the man with the glasses was felled with a horseshoe indentation. Julian circled, raking them furiously, lashing reins, bellowing, “Thought I wouldn’t hear? Sneak in like cowards and do your filth!” He turned purple but continued slashing and screaming at the stunned mob. “You’d murder my boy’s boy!” He gasped, breathless, as Sary dangled and struggled to place her foot on the tree knot. Grace jumped back with evil still on her face.

  The rotted bole snapped. So consumed by her concentration on that small toehold and the barbs of hemp biting her neck, Sary had never thought she’d really die, but she braced now for the inexorable jerk, thunk, and irrevocable tautening of rope— Would she hear it squeak as she twisted at the end for the delight of the haters…be a lesson and spook-tale for the young?

  She couldn’t breathe anyway, with smoke skirls now flying away in charred calico, for her dress has caught. Her petticoats, damp, smoldered rather than burned. She thought all this in the split second she plummeted, clawing the noose.

  Julian, choking in the same smoke, cantered up. Sary detected the dark blur of a sleeve as he slashed the rope and her body thudded heavily to the ground. She beat at her charred skirts, coughing raggedly, her throat constricted by the noose.

  Meanwhile, Julian wheeled his horse, firing indiscriminately at the skulking mob and roaring, “Puling scum! Never come to my stores, drink in my bars, or be welcome in my house!” Behind him, Grace still strove to yank Sary back to the tree.

  Aaron timidly offered, “Shot our kids, Julian—Mister, ah…Delacorte.”

  “And the whole world’s weeping!” Julian snarled.

  “John?” whines a wife. “Need somewheres ta buy provisions. Somewheres ta go.”

  Julian knocked Grace aside. “Loosen it!”

  Grace bared teeth but savagely yanked the rope off over Sary’s head with extra harshness, kicking Sary’s ribs before Julian jerked her away. He glowered at Sary, reaching down, his face purpling with effort. “Now will you come?”

  Sary rubbed her neck and twisted her mouth. “With them?”

  The mob sniggered as Julian circled, impotent.

  He cantered over and sna
tched Sary’s horse. “Stay in your own Hell then!”

  “Best go, Gracie,” Aaron said. “Heard Mister Delacorte. Cory’s gone.”

  He held out his hand. Grace accepted it.

  The rest trailed after.

  ****

  A rooster crowed.

  Her throat was raw, swollen. Why?

  Sary fumbled at her neck. It all came back…a rope like rusty braid, skirts burning, acrid. She jumped from her cot whooping and squinting at an apparition and sat down hard: Handi, in ruby velvet, frothy pink petticoat, and a glitter of gold and amethyst, smoking, skirt spread around Sary’s three-legged stool on the dirt.

  Sary squinted again.

  Another apparition loomed, hung with fetishes, wrinkled as a wadded rag left to dry, in stained, cinder-pocked chamois muttering Serrano—Indian talk.

  The hag prodded Sary with bony, dirty fingers.

  “Boy!” The hag’s eyes widened from flinty pebbles to polished agates in the parched earth of her face, addressing Handi in English. “Big!”

  The rooster squawked mid-crow as she swung it. The snap was a crack shot. Blood spurted in a tin mug. She rummaged in her sling bag for eggs, cracked two in the blood, stirred in chilies and dried herbs with a dirty finger, and grabbed Sary’s chin.

  Sary guzzled it, holding out for more, wiping her bloody chin.

  The Hag’s grin showed two teeth, one on top, one on the bottom. She squeezed the rooster’s neck over the cup.

  Handi tossed a last look and patted a cow on passing, a cow hitched to a travois and prodded by a sullen Indian. As the youth hacked saplings, the hag bossed him without mercy.

  ****

  Stars scintillated, stuck like sequins against the bosom of earth’s black velvety shawl, Sary thought dreamily. The hag had given her something. A fire blazed. Sary gulped warm milk. The leanto had been transformed into a woven sapling-mud hut. Sary never saw the young stripling Indian again.